‘Then I accept. But before I deliver my weapons, Marshal Perron, I have one favour to crave of you.’
‘Ask it.’
‘I wish to face that man…’ he pointed at Peyraud, ‘with either sword or pistol, as he chooses.’
Perron’s head turned, and Sutherland grinned.
The Begum clapped her hands.
‘I do not fight with prisoners of war,’ Peyraud declared.
‘You’ll fight this one, by God,’ Sutherland said.
‘I have heard of this rivalry,’ Perron agreed. ‘It is a matter of women. I had not imagined you Englishmen were so romantic, monsieur.’ He got up. ‘I think your honour demands that you face Mr Bryant, Peyraud. I will have no officer in my army who refuses to defend his honour.’
Peyraud knew he had no option.
‘It is my choice of weapons,’ he said.
‘Of course,’ Perron agreed.
‘Then…rapiers.’
‘Rapiers?’ Perron looked to Sutherland. ‘Do we possess such things?’
‘I imagine two can be found. But...’ he turned to Richard. ‘Do you know anything of fencing?’
‘No,’ Richard said. ‘But I accept.’
Sutherland looked genuinely distressed.
‘Then do you find us two rapiers, General Sutherland,’ Perron said. ‘And we will have this set-to.’
Sutherland hurried off to hunt through the various military chests. Richard did not doubt that he would find the old-fashioned swords; there were weapons of every possible description to be found in India, and the Portuguese as well as the early English adventurers of two hundred years before would have carried rapiers, which would have been lovingly preserved.
‘Meanwhile, Richard, I think you should be allowed to inspect what you are fighting for,’ the Begum said. ‘Do you not agree, Marshal Perron?’
She was playing one of her little games, as usual, making people dance to her own tune. But Perron was smiling; he obviously knew all about the cause of the rivalry between Peyraud and Richard. He sent a messenger back to his encampment, and shortly Richard’s eye caught the flutter of skirts.
Caty and Barbara walked together, a contrast in figures and colouring, arms about each other. Beside them came a tall young man in the uniform of a lieutenant.
Richard looked at Perron, who nodded his permission to go forward.
He watched their expressions change as they recognised him. Delight, followed quickly by fear, flitted across their faces, and it was to Peyraud they looked.
‘Richard!’ Caty said, and was in his arms. ‘They said they were going to hang you,’ she told him. ‘Peyraud said that.’
‘He misjudged his general,’ Richard told her, and kissed her. ‘In only a little while we are going to be reunited.’
‘Unless you are killed,’ Barbara observed drily.
He kissed her in turn. ‘You should have been on a ship to England,’ he chided her.
‘I know,’ she agreed. ‘But I am glad I am not, at this moment. You will kill him, Richard. Shoot him down like the dog he is.’
‘I’m afraid shooting is not practical. But I will kill him.’ He stood before Michael.
‘Do you know who I am?’
‘Yes, sir,’ the boy answered, in English.
‘Would you have me fight Monsieur Peyraud?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Michael said again. ‘For all of us.’
He indicated the three younger children, all in their teens, pretty girls and a handsome boy. Caty’s children, who would be his if he won.
Sutherland came trotting his horse towards them. As Richard had expected, the general carried two basket-hilted rapiers.
‘I will see you all again, in a little while,’ Richard assured them. He kissed Caty and Barbara again, and walked over to where the Begum and the officers were gathered.
‘Perhaps that was unwise, Richard,’ Aljai said slyly. ‘You look quite unmanned.’
Richard ignored her, took the weapon offered by his friend.
‘This is a game of speed and agility, rather than strength and courage, Richard,’ Sutherland said. ‘I would say you possess all four.’
Richard clasped his hand, then turned to face Peyraud, who had taken off his tunic. Richard did likewise, and listened to a tremendous blowing of bugles from the fortress, where Tanna and the children, Multi and Seyene were also watching. He was about to fight for all of them as well.
Peyraud placed his feet in the classical manner, right leg thrust forward, sword at eye level.
‘En garde!’ he called.
‘On guard,’ Richard said, and drew a long breath. Speed and agility, Sutherland had recommended. He would be content just to get past that flickering point of steel.
‘Ha ha!’ Peyraud shouted, and leapt forward, sword extended, for the attack.
Richard swept the rapier to one side with a blow from his own but instantly it was back, reaching for his breast. The onlookers gasped, as there was a trickle of blood. He hurled himself to one side, falling to his hands and knees, losing his grip on his sword for a moment.
‘Up, monsieur,’ Peyraud said, smiling grimly ‘Up.’
Richard found his sword hilt, and slowly stood up. He was outclassed. He, Richard Bryant, the most feared duellist in India, was going to be stuck like a gobbet of meat on a piece of metal so thin he could almost have picked his teeth with it, in sight of all his people!
‘Ha ha!’ Peyraud called again, and made another advance.
Speed and agility, Richard said to himself again. He leapt to one side, and as Peyraud turned on beautifully balanced feet, leapt again.
Peyraud turned and lunged, but Richard was leaping back the other way.
Peyraud’s lunge followed him, but the Frenchman had overreached, and dropped to one knee.
‘Stand and fight, you coward,’ he snapped,
‘Up, monsieur, up,’ Richard said.
Peyraud leapt angrily to his feet and charged. But again Richard was to one side of him, swinging his blade to catch his enemy across the shoulders and send him tumbling again.
The watching men roared with laughter; Caty clapped her hands. Barbara held her hands clasped to her throat.
Covered in dust, Peyraud lumbered to his feet. Now it was Richard’s turn to charge, but unlike Peyraud he had not lost his temper. He knew he could not match that point for speed. He halted his charge, suddenly, out of range.
Peyraud, preparing to parry, came on and, taken by surprise by Richard’s sudden check, lunged again, his breath coming in great gasps, and now found himself truly off balance.
Richard side-stepped with time to spare, turned, and lunged. His blade entered Peyraud’s left side, some inches beneath the armpit. The blood came spurting, and Peyraud crashed to the ground.
Diary of Mrs Richard Bryant, 5 June 1802
Tea with Mr Pitt! How are the fallen raised!! He wanted to know all about India.
How strange, to be speaking of India, on a summer afternoon in London! I listen to the clop-clop of horses’ hooves, the cries of the street vendors, all the bustle of a great city, close outside my window.
There is not a cockroach nor a mosquito to be seen. I am quite sure there is no snake beneath my bed, without even looking.
No tiger growls outside my door.
The thought quite brings tears to my eyes!
To talk, about India, to Mr Pitt, also brought tears to my eyes. There was too much to remember, which I did not tell him. He was interested only in politics, and my impressions of the country.
I did not tell him of my experience at the hands of the vile Peyraud; I did not tell him of my friendship for Tanna and Caty.
I did not tell him of my love for Richard. He would not have understood.
I did not tell him how my heart swelled to see Richard standing there, above his slain foe, for all the world like a knight of the Round Table, with blood dripping down his chest.
I did not tell him how that same heart constricted as
Caty ran forward to embrace her husband.
Perhaps my decision had already been taken.
I have had the best of India. At least, I have had the best of Richard. And he has had the best of me.
Since it could be said, as he admits himself, that his career only truly began when he killed a man over me, it were best it ended, for my part at the least, the second time he killed a man for me.
My decision was confirmed by the look in his eyes as he took Caty in his arms.
I did not speak to Mr Pitt of these things.
I did try to speak of Richard, and of George. To tell him what force and power was there to be harnessed, for England.
But he dismisses them as adventurers, dangers to the Company.
What will become of George the Victorious? How may a man who has become a legend in his own lifetime survive without the constant ring of battle in his ears?
Will he take service with the Company? How could they hope to discipline such a man?
Richard, I believe, will do so. He spoke of it. It has always been his ambition, and now it may be possible for him to realise it, as he has the ear of Lord Mornington. So he will return to Bombay, with his wives and nine children, and become the cynosure of all eyes.
Yet I know he still dreams of bringing the Scindhia down, of avenging the surrender of Georgegarh.
I wonder if he still dreams of the Begum Sombre. The day he fought Peyraud was the first and last time I laid eyes on her. She is every bit as beautiful and compelling as I was led to believe. And therefore, no doubt, every bit as vicious and cruel.
What will become of her?
Mr Pitt was not interested in these things. He deals not in peoples but in maps and continents, in vast concepts and immense ideals. He dreams, and he fears. He welcomes Mornington’s success, is alarmed by his annexations.
Without people, where would his concepts and his ideals be?
His niece was at tea, a charming young woman named Lady Hester Stanhope.
She was most interested in everything I had to say, even about Richard and George and the Begum. She hung on my every word, her eyes shining in adoration.
‘Oh, how I envy you!’ she cried when I paused for breath. ‘To adventure so. I wish I could do the same.’
‘My dear Hester,’ her uncle said, ‘It is simply not done, by la…’ he had the grace to look embarrassed. ‘Well, except in unusual circumstances. Mrs Bryant’s circumstances were unusual. Yours are not.’
‘I shall,’ she cried. ‘I shall! I swear it. I shall!’
Poor deluded child. Although she is well past twenty and a married woman, she is still a child.
Ah, India! But now I must put it all behind me. There is a card from Mr Howard, asking if he may call. Why not? He is handsome, in his fashion. And terribly well connected!
He is also rather wealthy, wealthier by far than myself, so at least I know that he—unlike some other gentlemen whose acquaintance I have made since returning—values me rather than my money.
He wishes, I believe, to take me to Almack’s, if he can obtain the necessary permission from Lady Jersey. From all that I hear of that lady I doubt he will succeed.
But I am not interested in Almack’s.
Mr Howard wishes a great deal more than that. And there I am interested.
A woman cannot live without love.
Epilogue
George Thomas, Ship Sahib, George the Victorious, died on 22 August 1802 at Burhampore in Bengal on his way to Calcutta, of a fever aggravated by drink. He was only forty-six.
He was buried in an unmarked grave.
He needed no monument other than the memory he left in the minds of those who had fought behind, or been forced to face in battle, that huge armour-clad figure brandishing his two-handed, double-edged sword.
When he knew he was going to die, he closed his great right fist, looked at it, and said, ‘I had it all, there…and let it slip away.’
*
The Begum Sombre was certainly still alive in 1830. By then she was a toothless old hag, and the Company had taken away her jaghir. But they left her in possession of her innumerable lakhs of rupees, and her faithful slave girls.
And her memories.
*
As Barbara had predicted, Richard Bryant took service with the Company, was given the rank of colonel, and a regiment of sepoys.
He did indeed have a score to settle, and the following year took part in the campaign against Daulat Rao Scindhia and his redoubtable army.
In the north, General Lake stormed Delhi, which was defended by Perron himself. The Marshal fled, and dis-appeared from history.
It yet took two bitter battles, at Laswaree in the north, on 23 September, and at Assaye in the south on 1 November, where the British were commanded by the newly promoted General Arthur Wellesley, to bring about the collapse of the power of the Scindhia, and truly launch the Honourable East India Company upon that programme of expansion which was within fifty years to make it the dominant power in all India.
Diary of Mrs William Howard, 4 April 1810
London is all of a twitter. General Richard Bryant has returned from India, laden with honours, and money! And with his wife and daughters!!!
So Tanna must be dead!! Poor, dear Tanna! I grieve for her.
Will I see him again? I think not. The past is the past. But I am happy for his success.
Only think, he will be fifty. But then, I am forty-nine!! Mr Howard says life begins at fifty. Certainly to look back would be a mistake.
Richard’s sons, they say, have remained in India, to ‘carry on the family tradition’.
Undoubtedly they will be working and fighting for the Company, which seems to do nothing but expand, for all the directives from London.
I wonder if they will prove as successful as their father? Time will tell.
Prosper, Richard, and be happy. Caty too. But sometimes, only sometimes, dream of me.
If you enjoyed reading Sword of Fortune, you might be interested in The Command, also by Christopher Nicole.
Extract from The Command by Christopher Nicole
Chapter One: England, 1914
When the rumble awoke Murdoch Mackinder he threw back the covers to stand at the window and look out at the flashes in the sky.
‘Only thunder,’ Lee said. And when her husband didn’t immediately turn, she asked, ‘Is it so like gunfire?’
‘Yes. I suppose it is.’ He returned to the bed and sat beside her. ‘I didn’t mean to wake you.’
She put her arms round him, holding him close. ‘I was awake anyway. I guess I’m counting the hours.’
‘So am I, dearest. So am I.’
‘Because you want to get back. And I’d like you to stay.’
He kissed her. ‘I have to get back.’
‘Oh, sure.’ She held herself away and smiled at him. ‘Not yet thirty-four, and colonel of the regiment. There’s something.’
‘Too much, for poor Martin Walters.’
‘So it’ll be too much for you, too, when you get yourself shot again. Oh, Murdoch...’ She allowed her fingertips to trace down his back, feeling the scar tissue. There was more scar tissue on his leg. His body, hard and tough and lean, had been scoured by a dozen wounds. He was a real-life, genuine hero, and he had the medals to prove it. She had known all of that when she had set her cap at him almost ten years ago — but had not really been aware of what would be involved.
Murdoch Mackinder VC had been a hero to her before she even met him. It started because her brother Harry had been sent from New York to cover the Boer War, and had there elected to build his stories around the exploits of a young lieutenant who had the knack of attracting trouble and surviving it. When she had first seen her future husband in hospital in 1905, Murdoch had been recovering, not from a war wound, but from being rolled on by his horse during an army manoeuvre gone wrong. He had been badly hurt, with several bones broken, but was already on the mend. And surely that would be the last injur
y. For Europe was at peace, and that meant the world was at peace. Indeed the pundits proclaimed that war between two civilized nations was now impossible. To an American that had to seem true, on every count.
But there was no such thing as peace for a British army officer, and even before they married, Murdoch had been wounded again. His dragoon regiment had been sent to Somaliland to combat a religious leader known quaintly as the Mad Mullah. There Murdoch won more fame, and once again had been wounded almost to death. To what purpose? The Mad Mullah was still at large, causing havoc.
But even that turmoil paled into insignificance last summer, when all of Europe had gone mad. The Royal Western Dragoons was one of the first regiments to land in France, had earned distinction by covering the retreat from Mons and Le Cateau, and in doing so had lost both their colonel and their adjutant. Colonel Walters had died from his wounds. Major Mackinder had survived and been promoted. He was even to be awarded another medal. But, once that was done, the regiment, and the war, wanted him back — to tear at again. And one day the tear would prove fatal.
One day soon, because now he was fully recovered. The doctor had said so, yesterday.
Murdoch kissed her again. ‘Just about dawn. May as well get dressed.’
She watched him go to his dressing room, then she lay down again. Marylee Mackinder, she thought. She was fond of repeating that to herself. Indeed she was a much envied woman: she was young, she was pretty, she was healthy; she possessed by right of marriage this magnificent house set in the rolling Somerset countryside. She had dogs and horses, and in-laws with whom she was close friends. She had three healthy children — and a famous husband. Could she ask more?
She touched her flat stomach. The family was soon to grow. She knew it, even if she had only missed one period. Murdoch might have been badly wounded, but he remained a strong and vigorous man, and he had recovered splendidly. But she had not told him yet. That was nothing to tell a man who was about to go to war. It could wait till he came back the next time.
If he came back the next time.
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